


Smoke Rings in the Dark

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Heart-to-Heart, Love Confessions, M/M, Referenced Body Horror, Scarred Dean, Sensuality, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of all the things for Castiel to become obsessed with, Dean never expected it to be his scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Rings in the Dark

Out of all the things for Castiel to become obsessed with, Dean never expected it to be his scars. They weren’t even interesting anyway; an assortment of jagged and raised lines spread out across his body from his face to his toes, spanning the length of his torso and over his eyes, gashes on his legs and claw marks over his chest, most faded and pale, only visible in the brightest of light. Surgeries, hellhounds, werewolves, car crashes—everything life threw at him found its way permanently etched into his skin, marks even Castiel couldn't erase, citing something about bringing him back ‘as he was’ and how they were a _part_ of him, whether he appreciated looking at them or not.

And no matter how often he avoided the mirror or looked anywhere other than himself, he knew they were there, permanently etched into the very fabric of his soul. Marks he couldn't put a name or a place to, events he couldn't even begin to remember, all ingrained somewhere in the back of his mind, embedded forever into the inside of his eyelids. No one commented on their existence, no one made up stories in their head about whether he served or if he met the bad end of a harrow—no one ever asked.

Except Castiel. Sam stitched Dean up hours ago in their room in Chokoloskee, the gash where the kelpie sunk its fangs in stretching from his neck to his collar, a good chunk of flesh nearly ripping away. What it was doing in _Florida_ remained to be seen, but after the number of rounds Sam and Castiel fired into its hide, it wouldn't be coming back any time soon. The Johnson boy’s mother would be grateful, surely; they would have to tell her tomorrow, after Sam and Castiel woke up and Dean stopped his new habit of nervous smoking outside the back door of hotel rooms.

In this case, the back door was a dock in the middle of their hotel’s marina. Above, the moon loomed as a thumbnail, stars twinkling a sad rhythm, his only witnesses being that of the occasional flood lamp from an unattended boat and the lone lamp leading out to the gulf. No residents watched him sit there, shirtless and tattered, letting his bare toes skim the surface of the summer-warmed water, just enough to wet them. Wearing anything for the next few days that touched his neck would be a pain; even looking in any direction was taxing, putting strain on the stitches and leaving him wincing with each pull of thread. It could have been worse—it could have actually bitten his head off.

With shaking hands, Dean pulled the worn pack of Marlboro’s from his back pocket and held it in his hands, debating between hurling it off the dock into the water or shoving the last two in his mouth and lighting them at the same time. Maybe it would finally take the edge off, kill the thrum pulsing beneath his skin where one scar used to lay, the last remnants of bloodlust striving to break free to the surface, to take control once again. Castiel told him it would fade over time, that the urges would subside and he could return to his abnormal life, free to touch without feeling pain, to feel emotions without the sharpened edge of anger lingering in his words.

Still, he tasted blood in his mouth every time he spoke, felt it seeping between his fingers in the air. Even without the Mark and its omnipresence, it still held on, talons clinging to his soul and threatening to tear. And even Castiel couldn’t fix that, heal the damage that had been done in the dungeon; every so often, he still tasted the last vestiges of foreign Grace on his tongue, just enough electricity to be unsettling. Castiel told him it was a side effect. It would wear off.

It would _all_ wear off—but when?

Lone filter between his lips, he flicked open the Zippo in his hand and thumbed the flint, struggling to still the jitter in his hands and the shake of his breath. Somehow, the gentle padding of feet along the rotting boards of the dock was a comfort to him; he knew those feet too well to think it a threat. Even as a human, Castiel walked lighter than air, soft creaks in flooring always giving him away. Castiel didn't speak when he sat at his side, instead taking the lighter from his hand and rasping the flint, setting the wick alight; Dean leant forward enough to light the end of his cigarette, letting his tension ease with the first drag, blowing smoke rings into the humidity of the night.

Castiel rasped the lighter once more, the last of Dean’s pack now lit between his lips—until he started _coughing_ , hand over his mouth and cigarette smoking, tapping cinders off into the water. “’S a bad habit,” Dean laughed, low, flicking off ashes and letting them waft down into the black beneath his feet.

“You’ve taken to it,” Castiel croaked. That was just what he needed, to take up smoking and destroy his voice even further; Dean didn't know if he could handle hearing him sound like _that_ for more than three seconds at a time. At least with the Mark, he could ignore the pain in his chest every time he looked at him, ignore the way touching him made him feel. Now, two inches away on a dock facing the ocean, he resisted the urge to reach out and touch, to take Castiel’s hand in his like he had earlier in the day, when the sky was brighter. When the world wasn't closing in on him the further the moon ascended, claustrophobia looming at his back.

“’Ve always smoked,” Dean said, blowing smoke in intricate rings into the sky. Leaning back on his hands, he looked up into the abyss, Castiel’s hand covering his own helping to calm the quickened rhythm of his heart. “Just—not much. Once or twice a year, tops. Takes the edge off.”

“You’ve gone through two packs in the last week,” Castiel commented. Dean huffed a breath and let himself fall back onto the dock, stubbing out the last of the cigarette and setting it to the side. Castiel looked down at him, cobalt eyes reflecting the moonlight dancing on the water’s surface. “Are you alright?”

Lying wouldn't work on Castiel, not now—not when he was looking at him like that, like he had for the past few months. Like he was something breakable, set to shatter at the first sign of stress. And with all his heart, he wished he felt as strong as he claimed to be. “Neck hurts like a bitch,” he groused, tearing his eyes away. Castiel followed his lead and lay at his side, offering the remnants of his cigarette; Dean waved it off, Castiel putting it out on the dock. “…’M startin’ to feel like this ain’t ever gonna be normal. Like… It still feels like the damn thing’s on my arm, but every time I look, it’s just your damn _brand_. I don’t know which one’s better at this point.”

“I’d hope it would be the brand,” Castiel deadpanned, turning his head to the side. With a steady hand, he reached over to press his fingers to the raised sigil there, tracing the design, burning at his touch. Dean cringed at the familiarity, having half the mind to stop him, to tell him to back off; still, he let him continue, fingers mapping out the long-since healed gashes up the length of his arm, almost a caress. Almost like he cared.

Castiel _always_ cared—that was the problem. The whole situation was new, Castiel hunting with them, sleeping in the same room—in the same _bed_ , most of the time. And it had only been a matter of time before he woke up with an arm slung over his waist and lips pressing chaste kisses along his nape. Neither had discussed it for a week, letting the tension boil over until the chupacabra incident in New Mexico and the mad dash to and from the emergency room that left Castiel in a sling for a month and working with Sam to regain mobility for another few weeks.

After that, Dean rarely ever left his side except for moments like this, where he needed to step away and _breathe_ , no matter if it was smoke or air. Somehow, Castiel always found him and just _sat_ there, never speaking, waiting for Dean to give him some sort of direction. For now, in the dark of the Florida night, Dean let him trace over every healed wound on his torso: the claws from the hellhounds stripping permanently discolored lines down his stomach, the puncture wound between his ribs, the bite to the other side of his neck. Slashes across his forehead, the sacrificial cuts down both arms, shotgun pellets to the chest, small knots left behind from bullets, botched stitch jobs—it was a certifiable miracle he still had all his limbs.

Still, Castiel treated him with reverence, keeping his touch light and never quite venturing lower, mouthing quiet words into his shoulder, over the fading remnant of a handprint branded eternally into his skin. “There were only so many things I was capable of as an Angel,” he sighed, leaning up to fit a hand over the brand on his shoulder, the pink mark disappearing beneath his own. “I apologize if all of these are too…unsightly, for you.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Dean said through a yawn. “Didn’t expect you to get rid of ‘em in the first place. Only ones I don’t like are these.” Letting his hand drift down, he covered the permanently discolored marks stretching down his abdomen, vanishing beneath his waistband.

“The hounds,” Castiel commented. Dean nodded and dropped his hand, Castiel reaching over to run his fingers along the raised edges, jagged and torn in every direction. Those always drew the most attention, the mottled purple flesh stretching down to his thigh surrounded by stains of faded pink and silver, looking more like a raptor tore him apart than anything tangible. And the fact that he had _survived_ it in the end—minus the fourty-year stint in Hell and the handprint seared into his arm—was still enough to keep him awake at night, absently tracing the lines, digging his nails in just enough to feel something, _anything_.

It hurt now, more than ever. “Still feel it, sometimes,” he admitted, eyes to the moon. “Like… I’ll wake up thinkin’ ‘bout how it felt, and I’ll think I’m still back there—.”

“But you’re not.” _Thank God_. Castiel thumbed the center of his chest, passing over the triangular gash there, the freshest of most of them. Dean watched his face soften in the pale light, Castiel dropping to rest his forehead on the scar, just breathing, the steady exhale of breath on his skin comforting, reaffirmation that he was alive. That they were there, despite it all. “Sometimes I wonder how many times I’ve been able to actually save you,” Castiel said in the lull of silence, draping an arm over Dean’s waist and pulling him closer.

“Don’t—.” Dean stopped to breathe, reaching over to palm down Castiel’s back, fisting his shirt. “You've saved me plenty of times, Cas… Just ‘cause you didn’t—.”

“I should’ve been there.” Something flashed across Castiel’s eyes, Dean’s heart stuttering at the look he gave, somber and remorseful, agonized. “If I had stopped Metatron in time, I could’ve—.”

“Hey.” With steady hands, Dean pushed up to sit and squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, firm and warm in his grasp. “Look at me. There was nothin’ you coulda done, alright?”

“There was.” Castiel closed his eyes, dropping his head onto Dean’s shoulder. “…And it almost didn't work this time.”

 _But it did_. He was alive and Mark-free, despite the occasional setback and residual effects. It would fade—it _would_ fade. Castiel’s newfound humanity wouldn't, now a permanent staple of their trio. Three humans with no strings attached, wandering the highways with aimless intent—what a life.

“It worked, though.” Dean leaned his head atop Castiel’s own, watching the stars ripple on the water’s surface, a streak lighting the sky and disappearing beyond the horizon. “You ‘n me are here, and Sammy’s snorin’ his ass off back in the room. I think that counts for somethin’.”

“We shouldn't have had to go to those lengths, though.” Belatedly, Dean ran his hand down Castiel’s spine, resting at the small of his back, Castiel humming in content. “Are you really sure you’re alright?”

For once, Dean shook his head. “Don’t think I’m gonna be alright for a while,” he said in confidence. With his free hand he traced aimless designs over the fabric of Castiel’s pajama pants, Castiel never once making a move to stop him. It was quiet there, just the two of them; Sam would probably interrogate them tomorrow if he woke up while they were out, asking why they _both_ reeked of smoke, why they looked actually relaxed for the first time in months. He could blame it on the cigarettes, sure—still, Dean knew what it was.

“You’re still feeling the pull,” Castiel stated. He caught Dean’s wandering hand in his own, linking their fingers together; Dean held onto him, reveled in the strength in it, the promise it bore. “No matter how often I tell you… I’m starting to feel there’s no end to the absence. To have something ripped away from you that you’ve known for so long, that’s affected your decisions and how you’ve lived… It’s unnerving to feel so alone inside yourself.”

He understood, really—he never figured it would actually apply to _him_ , though. Having bore the Mark for so long and succumbing to its impulses, destroying the lives of innocents, nearly killing Castiel, only to have it stripped away in a burst of white, leaving him too human and vulnerable and Castiel with his own soul for the first time in existence. _Unnerving_ barely began to cover it. The barely-there thrum of _something_ in the back of his head when he sat still for long enough, the shake of his fingers when there was nothing to hold—all of that eased the longer Castiel was near, the closer their skin pressed.

As long as Castiel was there, maybe his soul wouldn't feel so cold.

“Pot callin’ the kettle here, man,” Dean murmured, nudging Castiel’s head with his own. “Should probably be askin’ if _you’re_ alright.”

“…I’m managing.” He felt Castiel’s sigh roll through him, body shuddering with the effort of it. “I’m glad, though, that out of all the places I could have Fallen, you were there at my side.” Dean flushed from the mention, his grip on Castiel’s shirt tightening. “I was expecting you to turn me out, again.”

“Dude, _no_ way,” Dean scoffed. Castiel’s hand clutched his own, thumb running over his knuckle in a manner too soft to be anything but affectionate. “If we’re gonna be human together, then there ain’t no way you’re doin’ it anywhere else. Last time was…” _A mistake, a fluke. Please don’t leave me again_.

“I admit it wasn’t under… ideal circumstances,” Castiel started, tone cautious, wary. “But it did give me the chance to better understand myself, to know what _I_ wanted.”

Dean swallowed, praying to _someone_ that Castiel couldn't feel how erratic his heart beat, how sweaty his palm was. “…And what do you want?”

“…Companionship,” Castiel started, quiet. “Stability, a home. Preferably with someone there waiting for me.” A pause. “You.”

Dean blinked; Castiel stared at him, eyes wide, and he could have sworn he saw a spark, a phantom glow amidst the pale light from the flood lamps. “You don’t—,” Dean stammered, averting his gaze. “You don’t… You don’t want me. I can give you all of that other stuff, but not…”

“You misunderstand, Dean Winchester.” Hand to his cheek, Castiel turned his face to him, letting their foreheads press together; Dean watched his eyes, fearing the emotion in his own threatening to spill over. “I’ve already made my decision. And my decision is that I want to stay with you, for however long you’ll have me. I don’t envision myself being elsewhere… Or loving anyone else, for as long as I’m alive.”

If Castiel noticed the wetness that streaked down his cheeks, he never breathed a word of it. “…Okay.”

“…Dean?”

Dean sucked in a breath, hating how that one word felt so huge, how the world around him closed in, sweat prickling along his skin from humidity and proximity, Castiel’s breath ghosting his lips. “Okay,” he sighed, voice shaking. “Okay.”

Castiel cupped his cheeks with firm hands, smiling in the diminishing gap between them. “You’re sure?”

With a nod, Dean returned the gesture, swiping his thumb under Castiel’s eye and drawing away the tears he knew were there. “’M sure. Just… You know what you’re gettin’ into with me, man. I’m…”

“You’re so much more than what you think of yourself, Dean,” Castiel murmured and kissed him, a light thing, barely there before pulling away; still, it lingered, Dean wetting his lips to taste the remnants. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He couldn't hold back the laugh that bubbled up, a smile creeping over his lips. “…You promise?”

Another kiss, and Castiel pulled him closer. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea of Dean being horrifically scarred by past hunts in my head forever, because c'mon. He can't be that pretty and clean all the time. I kind of played with the idea that Castiel can't erase scars, so this was fun to toy around with! Ok, NOW I'm gonna write productive things. ...Maybe. (Also I have a thing about Dean smoking and I need it in my life.)
> 
> Title is from the Gary Allan song. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
